


a concerto for two

by quibbler



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Orchestra, F/M, Skyeward if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-19
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-13 19:23:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 21,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2162193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quibbler/pseuds/quibbler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma Simmons, a world-renowned violin prodigy, stays still long enough to work toward a university degree. As the artist in residence with the London Symphony Orchestra, she finds herself going through the motions until she meets Leo Fitz, the new second chair cellist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing. It's all Marvel's! Beta-ed by the lovely Oce. If there are any relevant pieces or charts to link, I will include them in the notes. Jemma's solo piece is [Sibelius Violin Concerto in D Minor, Op. 47](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lZGgnidCQo0) and will be referenced multiple times through the whole story.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A musical prodigy meets someone quite like her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will try to make this as technically basic as I can, but avoiding it entirely is impossible, so I'll give a basic rundown at the beginning of each chapter of some information you should know. I played violin for ten years and viola for three, so I'm very much into how everything works and describing it as true-to-life as possible, but it's also been four years since I've actually played, so I'm a little rusty.
> 
> As I'm purely going off of what the internet is telling me, I'm relatively sure that the London Symphony has a few nights of rehearsal right before a concert. This is what most professional orchestras do, although some more local ones practice a few times a week. For the purposes of this fic, they have rehearsal a few times a week for about four weeks prior to a concert. I'd attribute this schedule change to the fact that Jemma is also a university student who has other obligations, so they've worked around her schedule some.
> 
> Seating, which is basically a rank of how good you are, is pretty important for this particular chapter. The first row of the orchestra closest to the conductor is comprised of title chairs, or section leaders. Concertmaster and assistant concertmaster for the 1st violin section, and 1st and 2nd chair for the other sections. Title chairs have sponsors and a higher salary because you're given the task of taking notes from the director and handing them back to the rest of your section if they missed them, and generally you're the most talented of the bunch. To earn a title chair, blind auditions are held where the judges can't see you and you can't see them, but there is no audio impairment.

She runs a soft cloth across the surface of the instrument, clearing off yesterday's rosin dust with a light touch. She has always said her violin is like her child and taking care of it daily is just part of her morning routine before rehearsals. She gives a quick once-over to the bow, making sure there are no broken bow hairs hanging from either end and with a sigh of satisfaction, she tucks both violin and bow away, locking the case.

When she makes her way into the bathroom, finally rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she stares at herself in the mirror from the doorway. Another day, she thinks and smiles. Her father keeps telling her that her smile lights up a room but she doesn't see it, only sees the ever-darkening circles beneath her eyes or the way her hair refuses to cooperate. She lifts a hand to the latest article taped up on the side of the mirror, smoothing the newspaper down.

The words on the page echo her biography that she sends in for every program of a concert in which she has performed, with minor additions about her studies at Oxford and her position as artist-in-residence with the London Symphony. Her smile falters slightly. The world only see her as a performer, tough-as-nails and ready to conquer every piece put in front of her. While it is true, she also wants the world to know that she isn't just a talented musician. She is a normal university student too, a daughter, a friend, a girl who sometimes falls asleep in her mythology lecture because, really, if you don't know the story of the Trojan War by now, how have you survived schooling?

She knows she's lucky, though, and that is something she tells herself every morning. She is lucky that she isn't followed around, her privacy interrupted at every corner with a camera. She is lucky that she does something she loves for a living. She is lucky that everyone in her life is so supportive. She is lucky that she is _here_ , really, and she never wants to take any of it for granted.

She hasn't performed since this past summer when she was finally able to make her way to Vienna for the performance in question. She wants to spend more of her time being the child and young adult that she never really was, but not performing was equivalent to not breathing for her, and after her tour of Vienna, she had felt a bit more like herself again. But with being at Oxford, it made performing far more difficult when she was expected to be landlocked. London was close enough that she could commute to rehearsals with the London Symphony and fulfill the role of artist-in-residence with them until she completes her studies, so she had made a standing deal with the orchestra. This would be her third performance with them in the past two years and she was determined to be better than ever before, as she always told herself before a performance.

It'd be a small performance, too, she reminds herself. It's dangerously close to Christmas holidays and the orchestra has a holiday concert, too, but she prefers the smaller venues anyway.

After showering and taking the time to curl her hair, Jemma all but inhales a cup of tea, a blueberry muffin, and two apples before grabbing her case and heading into the music room. She thanks whatever lucky stars are out there for her for being able to find a flat like this, one that she could renovate. This room was once a third bedroom before it was gutted and soundproofed, and now it remains a shining beacon of peace for her, a room where she can escape from reality for a few hours at a time and just _play_ , without being Jemma Simmons, violinist extraordinaire. There is a piano off to one side and a wall of bookcases, nearly filled with books on the great composers and scores all marked up with love.

She sets her case down on the floor and begins to prepare.

\-----

When she arrives at the rehearsal hall three hours later, she feels the exhaustion echoed in her joints and muscles. It's not that she minds the commute, but she wishes there was a better way to pass the time. But now is hardly the time for complaining, so she says hi to the few people who are already there. Jemma Simmons has the strange habit of being early for everything, after all, so she pulls out a book, instead, and waits for rehearsal to begin.

She isn't really reading, though, her eyes only ghosting over the words. She has read The Secret History at least twenty times now and instead focuses on what needs improvement from the last rehearsal. She fumbled a run at the Moderato assai that she has never messed up before; she needs to lean more into each crescendo in the second movement; she should be over the nerves already, but they always reappear right before the first few rehearsals.

The score is playing through her mind as she begins to micro-analyse, but then the conductor taps his baton against his stand and the orchestra comes to attention. (When did everyone arrive? She had been far more engrossed in her shortcomings than she meant to be.) "Before we begin, I'd like to announce that we have a new addition to our cello section. Leopold Fitz—"

"—please, it's just Fitz—" a voice says, and Jemma searches for the source, somewhere closer to a tenor and rather heavily accented. She can't quite see past the conductor and she doesn't want to move and draw more attention to herself, so she stays put, her brow furrowed, as the conductor continues.

"—right then, just Fitz. Fitz is joining us from the Royal Scottish National Orchestra. Introductions can be made during our first break."

When he steps off of the podium to let the orchestra begin tuning, she is shocked to see the new face sitting second chair. He looks young, possibly younger than she is, and she is momentarily struck dumb as her brain fires away, drawing a million conclusions and settling on absolutely none of them because Jemma Simmons does not draw conclusions based on such little information, thank you very much. She is so caught up in wondering how someone her age is sitting in a title seat at the London Symphony that she almost forgets to tune her violin entirely, but she shakes herself from her reverie and manages to bring her violin to rest beneath her chin as she carefully turns the pegs to tune each string.

When the orchestra is in perfect pitch, the conductor directs them to number 3 of the third movement, and she picks up her violin to clear her thoughts, nodding as he gives her the cue.

\-----

At their first break, she runs off to phone her mother, letting her know that yes, she's at rehearsal, and yes, when she's done she'll head back to finish writing her paper. (Prodigies still like to learn, after all, and she has no intention of letting a perfectly wonderful touring career ruin an equally wonderful chance at high education.) She stays in the corner of their rehearsal room and speaks with a few of the company--the concertmaster is a friend of her father's, after all, and he likes to check up on her--but she refrains from introducing herself to the new cellist, as badly as she'd like to. Besides, it seems like he has more than his fair share of introductions to make, though she notes that he looks a bit uncomfortable.

At the second break, she catches a lull in the endless number of people who want to see who this new cellist is and she twists her way past the conductor's stand and the other chairs, dropping into the first chair violist's seat.

"Hi," she says, slightly breathless. She isn't sure why her heart seems to be racing, though logically speaking, she reasons that after being forced to grow up quickly, constantly surrounded by people who were at least twice her age, it made perfect sense for her to feel some apprehension that there was now someone her age nearby who at the very least shared a passion for music. "I'm Je—"

"—Jemma Simmons," he says, nodding once and offering his hand. She is taken aback for a split second before a wide grin crosses her face. "Of course I know who you are," he adds, looking a bit sheepish for his interjection. "It's an honour to meet you. My name is Leo Fitz, but someone's already told you that." He grinned, tilting his head in the direction of the conductor, who was speaking with a few of the first violinists.

She shakes his hand, laughing slightly. "The pleasure is all mine," she replies, crossing and uncrossing her ankles before continuing. "How old are you, if you don't mind me asking?"

He fidgets quite a bit, she notices, but she doesn't say a word. "20, but my birthday is in a month."

"I _just_ had my 21st birthday! Well, not really just, it's been three months, but close enough," she exclaims, rambling slightly, drawing a breath to speak again before stopping herself. "Sorry, only it's been such a long time since I've spoken with someone my own age who wasn't at university with me—"

"—you're at university?" he asks, frowning slightly. She's about to splutter indignantly when he speaks again. "I didn't think you would have the time, what with touring the world and all." His accent cuts through noticeably and she's about to respond when the conductor approaches his podium, the signal that break is about to end.

"Oh, bother," she mutters, and he raises an eyebrow at her. "I'll talk to you later?"

He smiles and she can't help but smile back. "Looking forward to it," he replies, and she returns to her stand in front of the orchestra. She's not sure why she didn't ask the questions she was dying to have answered and instead was subjected to interruptions that weren't entirely unwelcome, but she finds herself less irritated and more just simply curious. All thoughts are dashed from her mind as she picks up her violin.

\-----

"You've transferred to Oxford? But that's where I am! Oh, this is wonderful."

He looks startled at the delight in her voice and nods with uncertainty. She carries her violin over one shoulder, her hand perched on the handle of her case, and he is wheeling his cello behind him, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck. Rehearsal had gone well for only her second day with them—it had been a while since the last time she performed with any orchestra, after all, and her initial worries about the piece she chose were entirely down the drain. He chuckles, shrugging. "Yeah, it's been a strange couple of days." He glances over at her and she tilts her head, questioning. "I mean, I've been at Oxford for a grand total of five days and I've made it to second chair with the London Symphony—"

"—congratulations, by the way, and don't think you're escaping telling me how you managed _that_ —"

"—and my new flatmate was just bloody arrested last night for stabbing someone with a fork in a pub fight," he continued as though she hadn't interrupted him.

She stopped dead in her tracks and he kept walking for a few steps before realising that she was no longer beside him. " _What?_ " Her mouth is open in shock. "Where do I even begin asking about it?"

He is facing her now and he laughs at her expression. "It's probably best if you don't ask. I don't even know what happened, honestly."

She starts walking again and he falls into step beside her. "Okay, but don't think you're getting away with not telling me. I'll ask again later. In the meantime, how did you land into second chair on your first try?" She knows that the previous second chair had retired just a few weeks ago and the rest of the cello section were all vying for the seat, but instead it was yanked from underneath them by a uni student. "It's not easy being an Oxbridge student and beating out all of the older players."

"You could've done it, if you weren't already internationally famous," he deadpans, and she blushes because it's the truth. She would have gone for concertmaster, if she could have managed it, and she falls quiet. "I drove into London on my first night and had my audition and lo and behold, here I am."

"You certainly are," she says off-handedly and he gives her this look that she can't quite place, but then she stops in front of her car, a little disappointed. "Well, this is me." She's reluctant to leave, but really, it's nearly an hour and a half back to Oxford and she has a paper to write. Then the idea strikes her and before she can tell herself it's a bad idea, the words are already spilling past her lips. "If you're interested, maybe we could carpool?" She winces internally because she sounds like a child, but she soldiers on. "It's a bit of a drive, after all, and we're both headed in the same direction."

He pauses and she almost tells him never mind, it was a silly question, but then he smiles and she returns it tentatively. "How could I say no? And I think my cello might _just_ fit in that sardine tin of yours."

She would normally argue but instead she just bursts into laughter as she unlocks the boot of her car. "I'll see you around, then."

He starts to walk away and she's about to get into her car when he slaps a hand to his forehead, turning around to walk right back to her. "We should exchange mobile numbers, yeah?" he half-shouts because she's not paying attention. She jumps and nearly hits her head on the top of the door frame when she hears his voice echoing in the garage before stepping back out.

"Oh, right," she says, looking sheepish. She recites her number and he sends her a message so she has his.

When he walks away and she gets in the car, she double checks to make sure he's gone before looking back down at her mobile.

_Fitz here, at your service._

She can't help but grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the slow start! A chapter will be posted every day, so tomorrow you'll get more actual interaction.


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skye pokes fun at Jemma, and Jemma and Fitz get to know each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive my complete butchery of the UK education system and probably egregious misuse of slang. The song I have in mind here is [Ella Fitzgerald singing It Don't Mean A Thing If It Ain't Got That Swing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PrVu9WKs498).
> 
> Sorry for how short this one is!

_Trying to escape my flat. How about I drive today?_

She sends a quick affirmative response back along with her address and wonders if he's just antsy or if he's trying to escape his flatmate. She tries to push the thought of her mind because there's no use in dwelling on something you know so little about, and instead she focuses on her laptop perched on her knees. "Skye, I've got rehearsal today so I'll be gone all evening," she calls out, not looking up from her screen.

There's the sound of footsteps and her roommate peers around the hallway corner. "Can you swing by the Shopper's Mart and get some grapes? I want a snack that I can also lob at the asshole that sits in front of me in Snooze-fest 101."

Jemma laughs, finally looking up from her paper. "You just said lob," she points out.

"Damn it," Skye yells, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling. "I've been here too long."

Jemma grins. "You'll succumb eventually," she says sympathetically. "And there's no way I'm encouraging you to pay even less attention in your anthropology course. I'm not driving today, actually, someone's picking me up. But you can take my car so long as you don't total it."

Her friend punches the air in victory before digesting all of Jemma's words. Skye raises an eyebrow and slides fully into the front room, her arms crossed over her chest. "Someone's picking you up? Details. I want them all."

She bites her lip, furrowing her brow at Skye because there really aren't any details. "What is there to tell you? There's a new 2nd chair cellist who just transferred to Oxford from Scotland and he's driving us both today because it's wasteful if we both drive separately."

The grin on Skye's face is too devilish for Jemma's liking. " _He?_ Is that music room of yours finally gonna be put to good use?" she asks, waggling her eyebrows. Jemma frowns. Ever since Skye moved in—more of a favour on Jemma's part but she needed the company—she had been making jokes about the music room. It was soundproofed because she practiced three hours a day and didn't want any complaints from a flatmate about the noise. The minute she told Skye, though, the younger girl started making wisecracks about how _so much else_ could be done in a soundproofed room.

"Contrary to your constant suggestions, I am not participating in any sort of shenanigans in my music room. It's solely for practising." Jemma pretends to sound scandalised but Skye only laughs, turning back to head for her room.

"Whatever you say, Simmons," she replies, her voice echoing down the hall carrying her disbelief back to where Jemma is sitting.

\-----

When his car rolls up, she's waiting outside, pulling her jacket closer to her. It isn't truly cold, but she was always kind of crap at making sure she's dressed appropriately for the weather. She opens up the boot of his car and tucks her violin into a corner where it will be safe before shutting the door and quickly making her way into the passenger seat.

Fitz is watching her with a look of incredulity on his face. "What?" she asks, slightly indignant.

He starts the car and turns his head back to pull out of the lot. "Nothing. I just thought you might have more common sense to wear a real coat rather than the flimsy thing you've got on now." There's a smile on his face but she still feels irritation colouring the edge of her vision.

"I immediately regret offering to carpool with you," she declares, not entirely sure if she's joking or not. "I've never been good at dressing appropriately for spring or fall, so unless you've a spare jumper in your car, I'll hear no more about it from you."

He shrugs, still wearing a half-grin. "Well, since you're already in my car and we've already started the drive, and I'm entirely unwilling to leave you stranded on the side of a road somewhere, I'll shut up about it." He sounds casual enough about it but she can see him bouncing his free leg. Another nervous habit, she notes. She says nothing about it and only nods in agreement before she finds herself staring at her hands in her lap.

She hasn't even noticed the music playing until now, and she catches a few phrases. "Ella Fitzgerald," she says, by way of recognition, and he turns to look at her. "Sorry, I'm only so-so with my jazz knowledge. Raised on classical music and all that, as that part of the world all seems to know." She listened to other music, sure—Skye was particularly fond of trashy pop music and Jemma felt intimately aware of the latest chart-topping hits after listening to them on repeat in her flat—but jazz was a genre with which she was far more unfamiliar.

"Then welcome to Basic Jazz," he said, looking pleased. "You're reading music at Oxford, right?"

She nods, shrugging. "It was the obvious choice, but since I'm already playing with orchestras everywhere, I thought performance was cheating, plus I started a year later than everyone else my age just to get in some more time for touring the world. I'm in composition and theory."

He laughs and confusion is written all over her face, she's certain. "Oh, sorry!" he apologises, shaking his head. "I'm not laughing at you, it's just... It's just that I'm reading and doing research in jazz theory, which is constantly clashing with classical theory, so we might get into a tiff here and there." He looks slightly sheepish at the thought and that alone makes her want to join in with his laughter.

When she catches her breath, she puts some thought into his words and frowns. "Research? Are you a graduate student, then?" He nods, and her frown deepens. "But you're just younger than me and you've transferred, which means you've been a graduate student for at least a year." He nods again, chewing on his lip as they pull out of a roundabout. "You're a _graduate student?_ "

He jumps slightly at her tone of disbelief. "Thank you for that vote of confidence," he says, wincing, before turning down the music. "I was going through school normally and my marks weren't all that fantastic, so my mum had me take some tests and it turns out I wasn't stupid, just extremely bored. So I took GCSEs and A-levels early and started uni when I was supposed to be starting sixth form."

She laughs then and it's her turn to look confused. "I took my exams early, too, but I'm travelling so much that going to uni was never a big priority until I sat down to think about it, which is why I'm only playing with the London Symphony until I'm finished. So I suppose it's not that surprising, but technically you're ahead of me," she mused, and he looks mostly modest but there's a glint of pride in his eyes. "I just don't get jazz, though, so you're going to have to explain a whole hell of a lot."

"How do you not get jazz?!" he yells and nearly explodes on the last word, his voice shooting up a full octave and Jemma laughs until her sides hurt.


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two musicians meet in a practice room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention that this fic starts in November and covers the span of about two months. And I'll be commenting back when all chapters are posted!

_How is Bobby McFerrin's vocal range humanly possible?_

Fitz snorts so hard that his water nearly comes out his nose and when he starts coughing violently, his flatmate spares him a glance of pity before walking back to his room. (Did he always have to wear a leather jacket? Even indoors, for Christ's sake.)

He picks his mobile back up and shoots back a response.

_He's magic._

That text means that she's listening to his recommendations and not scoffing at them like she pretends to on their drives when they take his car. For whatever inexplicable reason, this makes him smile. He knows the real reason, but he isn't about to admit that to himself. No, instead he picks up a manuscript notebook and his guitar and leaves his flat for a building with a practice room so he doesn't have a voice shouting at him through the walls.

He begrudgingly takes his car because even if he was looking for time to think—which he is—it's far too long of a walk with his guitar strapped to his back and a cold wind at his heels. His iPod isn't plugged in so instead he listens to the radio, to some inane pop song that has the same I-V-vi-IV chord progression as every other pop-punk song, but it's catchy like it's intended to be and he finds himself humming the melody as he walks into the building to find an empty practice room.

He sits down at the piano and tests out the keys. Slightly out of tune, he thinks, but it's not noticeable enough that he really cares, and he warms up with basic scales, the sound echoing all around the room. (Basic acoustics, he reminds himself, and his brain starts churning out the physics of sound waves as he plays.) When the scales start turning into D7 chords without thinking about it, he knows that he's home and a grin spreads across his face.

Fitz starts improvising, imagining a saxophone solo and upright bass rhythm. He starts with chords and slowly adds in embellishments, composing a piece in his head within minutes, and when he's done only a few moments later, he picks up his notebook and jots down the bare backbones of it in a shorthand of his own invention. He's so caught up that he doesn't even notice the door opening until the intruder speaks.

"I didn't know you were that good." He nearly jumps a foot into the air and slips off of the piano bench enough to jolt himself away from the piano. He closes his eyes and tries to get his heartbeat back to normal instead of pounding away like a racehorse, and he looks up to see Jemma Simmons standing in the doorway, her violin tucked under her right arm with her bow hanging off of her pinky. "I take it piano is really your main instrument? Since jazz cello isn't really a popular option yet."

"Fucking shite," he curses, putting his notebook down on the piano. "Knock next time, will you?" He draws a breath and is relieved that his heart is no longer threatening to bound out of his chest, so he continues to pose stupid, mostly theoretical questions until it's back to normal. "You're a world-renowned violinist, shouldn't you have your very own room to practice in your own flat?"

She shrugs and pushes in, closing the door behind her so they don't disrupt any of the other musicians practising. "I have a music room—"

"—see? I knew it!—"

"—but sometimes I come to the faculty building so I can see what else is going on. I have a strangely abbreviated course since I'm already quite proficient in the performance requirement." It sounds like she's bragging and there's a hint of a smile on her face, but it seems mostly like a statement of fact so he relents and decides not to ask any more half-insulting questions. "Anyway, stop distracting me! I didn't realise that you were so talented. I mean, I know you're talented because of your cello playing abilities, but I had no idea, not that I've ever heard you play piano before—"

"—you ramble as much as I do," he interrupts her, amused, and she shuts her mouth, looking confused. "Thanks, I suppose," he says, thinking that there was a compliment hidden somewhere in her words, though he tries not to process all of it. "Okay, what was your first question?" She's about to repeat herself when he smacks his palm to his forehead. "Wait, no, I've got it! Yes, piano is my main instrument. My aunt used to play and she taught me bits and pieces and I sort of worked out the rest myself."

She stares and it's hard for him not to blush under her gaze. He certainly isn't used to attention, especially from one person staring so intensely at him. "You... Worked out the rest yourself." she repeats, dumbfounded.

His brows knit together, total bewilderment colouring his features. "Yes..."

"So all of that," she starts, waving her free hand wildly, and he fights the urge to duck, "wasn't taught at all? You just drew that out from that mind of yours—"

"—that mind of mine? That sounds mildly insulting—"

"—no instruction except the rudimentary business—"

"—was that an insult or another thinly veiled compliment?"

"—and you can play like _that?_ "

He draws a breath as she stops talking and both of them just sort of stare at each other. He has interrupted her before and she's done the same to him, but never have they simply talked over each other. Talked over wasn't even the correct term, precisely; he understood every single world she was saying. She looks about as confused as he does, though she's standing perfectly still and he's fidgeting madly with the pencil in his hands. "What," he starts tentatively, "the bloody hell was that?"

She is still staring at him and he feels like he's about to burn crimson but then suddenly she is laughing and is clutching the side hidden by her violin with her free hand and she looks momentarily torn about falling to the ground and succumbing to her laughter or taking care of her violin. (He reasons that her worry is probably deeply ingrained into her behaviour and that her violin probably easily costs more than he and his mother make in a year combined.) He gives an uneasy chuckle but doesn't fully join in, still baffled. She holds out a finger and slips out through the door, wiping tears from her eyes as she walks away from his room, and when she returns with her violin case, he thinks he understands, if only a little.

"Do you mind if I stay in this room? I know most people don't like having an audience whilst they're practising, but I'm sort of desensitised to the whole concept and I'd like to figure out the blasted jazz chords that keep giving me headaches when I think about them."

He can't help but laugh then, making room for her on the piano bench beside him. "You're going to have such a massive headache after this."

"Is that a threat, Fitz?"

"My dear Simmons, it's a promise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so short! If you're interested in looking into Bobby McFerrin, please do. His voice is _insane_. This is one of the recordings of his cover of [Blackbird by the Beatles](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NntmAj60O60), and if you dig around, all of his covers are different.


	4. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitz starts to teach Jemma jazz theory and she begrudgingly admits that this is one aspect of music that does not come naturally to her.

The practice rooms become a meeting place of sorts where they can throw ideas at each other and he can teach her about jazz and all its wonderful, infuriating beauty. Fitz has never really talked to anyone about why he chose jazz, and he doesn't necessarily go into detail with Jemma, but he knows that just teaching someone can be enough. He gets too excited and often knocks his notebook off of the frame and though he flushes from embarrassment, she laughs in what sounds like genuine delight and he doesn't feel so ridiculous.

It's obvious to even the most clueless of people that Jemma Simmons is a very talented musician. She reads theory and knows exactly why a composition works, why the notes and chords all fit together like clockwork. She has performed for years and knows what a good performance can inspire in an audience and fellow musicians. But what Jemma Simmons cannot wrap her mind around, it seems, is improvisation.

Of course, she can improvise a cadenza with no real issue, as all she needs to do is listen to past examples of the world's greatest violinists or simply base it off of the phrasing already showcased in the piece. She knows that she needs to stay in key and ensure that it doesn't sound too out-of-place. Jazz improvisation, though, is an entirely different beast. There are no real rules, as staying inside a key that only barely exists is hardly conducive to good music, but it's difficult to break 18 years of classical training and the rigid molds she was so used to. His usual impatience hardly rears its ugly head when he's trying to teach her how to ignore the idea that music works in a box, how to splinter that box until it no longer exists.

He can feel her eyes trained on his hands as he plays a few simple chords whilst adding in suspensions, and then syncopation, and then flourishes. It comes naturally to him and it's always difficult to explain what he's doing in words when he has rarely ever thought about it in so much detail. He likes to challenge the framework set up by all of the musicians that came before him. Playing in a different key over the base chords makes him wonder why music is so set in its ways. When his fingers stop flying across the keys, Jemma always makes a noise of frustration from behind him and he turns around to see a look of concentration on her face, her brows furrowed, her jaw set, and every time he wants to laugh because she is so determined to understand jazz, but it's so difficult to place any true logic to it.

"I just don't understand how this comes so easily to you," she huffs, slumping on the piano bench. Her posture is normally perfect, but he notices that she hunches over whenever she's incredibly frustrated, and he can't help but grin knowingly.

"Natural talent," he shoots back, shrugging and quickly shifting away from her to avoid an elbow to the ribs. "You're being too hard on yourself, Simmons. It's much harder to be taught one method and then be told to think completely outside of that. I just didn't have any formal instruction, which I suppose works in my favour until I've got someone yelling at me that I don't play cadenzas that make any sense in cello concertos."

It's her turn to laugh. "Okay, I think I've got you beat there," she replies thoughtfully and he nods in fervent agreement. The conductor asked her to try something a little different from what was written in the cadenza of the first movement and she spent a total of ten minutes away from the orchestra as they rehearsed another piece before returning with something just as brilliant as what was written, and it was now up to her whether she should play what was written or what she herself had composed. "I still haven't heard you play anything on cello except for your practising between rehearsals. You're always on the piano or plucking away at the guitar here."

He turns away from her and stares at his notebook instead, the chords playing in his mind as he mulled over her words. It's not that he is embarrassed by his abilities, but at the same time, he is completely embarrassed. Even if they're something approaching friendship now (and he likes to think that they are friends, regardless of how little time has passed since they met), this is still Jemma Simmons sitting beside him, a world-renowned violin prodigy who was playing with international symphony orchestras by the age of 11. Fitz has always been lax about following instruction down to the minutest occurrence—he likes challenging what is presented. But he knows that means some of his techniques are unconventional, for lack of a better descriptor, and he isn't sure he wants to admit that to anyone but himself yet. "Maybe later on. You could find a violin and cello concerto for us to muck about on," he jokes, and his hands return to the piano.

\-----

She begrudgingly admits that the crazy amount of dissonance is starting to make sense, but then he'll throw in some stupid chord with sevenths and flat ninths and inversions and suddenly it doesn't make sense anymore. This is why she never studied piano—you have to see the big picture, and while she can certainly appreciate the big picture, she prefers the details. She prefers the flow of a melody in its phrases, the double- and triple-stops that sometimes break up that flow or enhance it. She prefers the staccato bow movements and the long slurs of notes and everything except chords that are so clustered together that _it sounds like noise_.

Syncopation is fine, and so is improvisation to some extent, or so she tries to tell herself, but she's still trying to wrap her mind around the absolutely mental stuff like polytonality, which gives her so much trouble that it physically pains her. When she gets confused, she knows she looks like such a dolt but she can't help it—Fitz is holding up his promise and she sort of wants to smack him for it.

Right now, he's trying to explain a new jazz pattern and he's waving a hand around excitedly, which would all be perfectly acceptable were he not driving them to rehearsal. This is the third time she has flung out a hand to the steering wheel in the past half hour. "Oh, Fitz, will you _please_ drive first, blither second? I'd love to make it to rehearsal in one piece, mind you."

He lets out a _whoops_ and grasps the wheel with both hands, and she feels secure enough to let go. "Sorry, sorry!" he yelps. "Okay, let's talk about something else then, before I run us off of the road. Why did you start playing the violin?"

It's a question she occasionally gets asked on the rare chance she gets an interview, but usually it's a blithe, simple answer. Truthfully, she doesn't know if there's a singular reason. "My mum's family is very musical, but she never really picked up on it. The odd one out," she says with a chuckle, shaking her head. "She knows plenty about music, though, despite not having any real interest in it. I think that sort of influenced her to buy me my first violin at the tender age of three. I still have that little toy."

"Three? Hell, I think I was still causing minor disasters in a sandbox at that point."

She smiles fondly, chewing at her lower lip before continuing. "I guess it was mostly because my grandfather just looked so proud of me when I managed to stay still long enough to hold it up beneath my chin. It's my first concrete memory."

A small smile flickers across his face as he flips on the turn signal to switch lanes. "And you've been training ever since. Well, until you sort of surpassed everyone that was willing to teach you."

She shrugs one shoulder, modesty waging war against her pride. "I suppose, if you're putting it that way." She doesn't like talking about herself when she doesn't have to, and their friendship already began with him knowing more about her than she did about him. It was an uneven playing field. "Okay, okay, enough about me. I get these sort of questions all of the time that I'm beginning to feel like a broken record. What about you? I know you taught yourself piano, but how did you learn cello?"

He glances at her, his mouth twitching. "Well, I sort of taught myself cello, too." She's about to open her mouth to shout at him, but he continues. "And a bit of violin, viola, and bass, as well. It just seemed like the natural progression of things."

She has fought the urge to smack him for so long but now she just can't hold herself back, punching him in the arm. He yelps and she thinks _Ha! Serves him right!_ "That is entirely unfair. Completely, _utterly_ unfair." She can't even put her frustration into words, so she just manages to make a face at him for a full ten seconds.

"Oy, don't look at me like that!" he squirms under her gaze and she gives up after a few more seconds, laughing. "Besides, it was less about my talent than the inability to keep up with lessons. Money and attention span," he says by way of ending that train of thought, and she won't pry unless he's willing to share. It seems like he wants to add something, maybe along the lines of his self-deprecating comment that _she could have done it, too, given the chance_. (She doesn't believe that for a second.) "Though, I reckon my talent did have some small part to play."

"Yeah, youngest 2nd chair cellist the London Symphony has ever seen," she deadpans, crossing her arms over her chest. "I can't believe you've just taught yourself all of this. You're a prodigy."

"Takes one to know one," he tosses back easily. There's something comforting about how they can go back and forth like this and for whatever reason, it feels like she has known him her entire life. She smirks at his retort and pokes his side, which makes him jump. "OY, I AM DRIVING HERE."

She snorts. "You are such a hypocrite!"


	5. V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitz meets Skye and makes a sort of groundbreaking discovery about Jemma.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a bit of string player jargon in it, so I apologise if it makes little sense! And Finale is a program used to compose/edit/arrange music. The Mendelssohn piece mentioned is the violin concerto found [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o1dBg__wsuo), and Jemma was listening to [Move by Little Mix](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RwD4eJGxPc4).

It's late when they return from rehearsal, and somehow Jemma has managed not to spit out her water all over Fitz's dashboard when he tells her about his disasters in teaching himself cello. He looks like he might fall asleep sitting in the driver's seat and so she invites him in for a cup of tea and he sighs a _thank you_ that sounds halfway between desperation and worship and she doesn't know if she should attribute it to exhaustion, but it makes her blush, though she chooses to ignore it.

Jemma is thankful that her flat doesn't look like a natural disaster blew through it, as monsoon Skye seemed to be absent. Fitz's jaw was somewhere between his neck and the floor when she glanced over and the sight made her raise a brow. "If you looked any more surprised, I think your jaw might come clean off."

He had the good grace to look sheepish as he raised a hand to the back of his neck. "Sorry, it's just—this is a bloody huge flat. Makes mine look like a supply cupboard."

It's her turn to look sheepish. "Well, if it helps any, I'd prefer a smaller flat because it means less to clean," she jokes, shrugging as she places her bag on the floor near a sofa and moves into the kitchen, grabbing her kettle to fill it up at the sink. "The only reason this one is mine is because there's a third room that I've converted into my music room." He gives a convincing all-knowing look and she tries not to roll her eyes but fails miserably. "Is Irish Breakfast all right?"

Fitz nods and she grabs two tea bags to place them on the counter before turning around to face him. He's drumming his fingers against the counter—another nervous habit, she notes. "So," he starts, and she straightens slightly, "how did you end up picking the Sibelius? It sounds fantastic, by the way, but pretty much hell to learn and perform."

She thinks for a moment because she doesn't really have a reason, not that she hadn't thought about it in hindsight. "You know, I don't really choose my pieces based on difficulty, though it's definitely a big plus that I can show off my technical skills," she says, shrugging, and he makes a face at her. "But I suppose I rely more on feeling that a piece is right. Sometimes I'll choose to play something like Mendelssohn just because it's so gorgeous, even though it's not hard at all—"

"—I played that one! When I was twelve, I think—"

"—exactly, it's not a big challenge, but the amount of musicianship that can shine in that piece is just lovely."

"But Sibelius is mental in every possible way."

She nods, chuckling quietly. "It's certainly not the easiest piece, but I kind of love it in all of its madness. The crazy runs and my goodness, the double stops. Double stops gave me a lot of trouble as a child so I think I really enjoy the challenge of pieces that have absolutely mind-boggling double stops. They tend to be the most satisfying when you get them right because it's all about how you angle your fingers and place them on the strings and how much pressure you put onto the bow, and sort of about how much rosin you put on the bow, as well. Too much makes the notes sound vile and crunchy and earsplitting, but just enough rosin makes them all resonate so well."

Fitz laughs. "Sounding _crunchy_ is sort of in the job description for cellist, especially when playing marcato or around 8, when we've got triplets happening."

Jemma stares blankly for a moment, mentally scanning through the score in her mind before it hits her and her eyes light up in recognition. "Oh, I've got it! See, I love when celli have stuff like that. It always sounds so heavy, like it's eating away at your soul."

They begin speaking at length about the piece, arguing about the best parts for each instrument and deciding that the viola solos are surprisingly exciting, and he looks as though he's about to speak again when there's the sound of a door opening down the hall. Skye appears out of her room, startling Jemma. "Oh, Skye!" she exclaims, turning back toward the cabinets to address the now whistling kettle and to find two mugs. "I thought you'd be out since the flat was dark when I got in." Her voice sounds strangely light, even to her own ears, and she winces inwardly.

Skye crosses her arms over her chest, her eyebrows approaching her hairline as she observes the scene in front of her. "Nah, I was just in my room watching dumb Vines that somehow turned into how-to videos about baking and I realised I was hungry, so now I'm out here." She turns toward Fitz, reaching a hand out. "I don't believe we've met. I'm Skye," she introduces herself, sounding far too sweet and Jemma knows that there is going to be quite the conversation later when Fitz leaves. She tries not to groan.

"Oh my word, where are my manners?" she says, trying to interrupt her own thought process as the tea steeps behind her. "Skye, this is Fitz, the new cellist with the London Symphony I told you about. Fitz, this is my flatmate Skye. She reads communications."

Fitz shakes Skye's hand. "You're American," he says, more of a statement than a question, but she can see that he's itching to ask and clearly, so does Skye.

"Yeah, it's a long story," she replies, and Jemma scoffs quietly as she turns away to dispose of the tea bags. "I'm here on partial scholarship and partially because I have a very generous benefactor in the form of a pseudo-father figure. And my dear Simmons here is basically letting me crash here on her dime."

Jemma bites her lip as she moves for the fridge, retrieving the milk. "Milk?" she asks Fitz, as though Skye hasn't just told him that she is essentially the only one with income to spare, and she refuses to look at her friend for the time being.

"Normally yes, but I think I need the unadulterated caffeine right now," Fitz replies, and she places the jug back into the fridge before picking up both mugs and setting one down in front of him. He takes it with a muttered _thank you_ and she turns back to Skye, who looks smug.

"Well, I'm just going to grab a granola bar and go disappear into my room to watch more videos because I'm too lazy to make anything, but um, it was nice to meet you, Fitz." Skye shoots Jemma a shit-eating grin before reaching into a cabinet for rations and flouncing back to her room and Jemma just knows that she will never hear the end of it. She tries not to sigh as she turns back to face Fitz.

He makes a face as he puts down his mug on the countertop. "Do you normally take your tea without milk?" he asks, and she makes a noise that should indicate _yes, it's the proper way to drink tea_ and he laughs. "Do you often burn your tongue?"

She takes a swig of her tea before replying. "More times than I can count, but I think I have a digestive system that's practically non-thermally conductive at this point." He laughs and the sound echoes around the too-clean kitchen and she joins in, letting herself appreciate the company. "Sorry about Skye... She's a spitfire."

Fitz grins. "I look forward to hearing all about her."

When he leaves, she sets to washing the two mugs in the sink with a smile on her face.

\-----

She parks outside of his building and withdraws her mobile from her pocket.

_Here early because we're grabbing food on the way there._

She hasn't even had time to put her mobile back in her pocket when it buzzes violently and nearly jumps of her hands.

_Fecking hell, I'll be down in three minutes._

The curse dies on her lips and she laughs. She keeps forgetting to tell him that she's chronically early to everything and he seems to be dead set on arriving exactly on time. To her, exactly on time means late, and she'll get him to see her side if it's the last thing she ever does. She turns on the radio and finds the closest station that plays pop music and sings along at the top of her lungs, not really caring who hears her.

When he knocks on her window precisely three minutes and two seconds after his last text message, she nearly jumps out of her seat before turning the music down and unlocking the doors. "Holy shite," she exclaims as she watches him move toward the boot, laughing so hard that he looks almost unable to lift his cello into the car, his face turning red with the effort. He slides into the passenger side seat, still wheezing, and she halfheartedly smacks his arm. "You scared the daylights out of me," she accuses.

He is still trying to recover and coughs before managing to reply. "Think of it as payback. Not my fault you weren't paying attention," he says thickly, trying to breathe properly without choking. "I never would have pinned you as a Little Mix fan." He sounds smug and a little disbelieving and she shrugs, her hand still pressed to her chest as though it might help her heart stop fluttering madly.

"Hey, they're very talented," she says, sniffing indignantly before starting the car. He bursts into another fresh fit of laughter and she just ignores him, singing over him as though perhaps he isn't in the car beside her. When he finally recovers, the song is over and she turns to him. "Finished then, are you?" she asks primly, and he nods, wiping tears from his eyes.

"Sorry, sorry," he apologises, sitting up and drawing several deep breaths before continuing. "You know, you have a pretty decent voice—"

"— _decent?_ What's _that_ supposed to mean?—"

"—you should audition for a jazz ensemble, if you're ever interested or bored enough. I know you're the sort of person who likes keeping busy."

She interrupted him only to poke fun at him but she does consider it. Jemma has never had the patience for classical voice training, though her grandparents did test the waters in that respect. Her theory and application had been just fine, but she didn't want to bother with vibrato, not when she thought it hindered the showcasing of melody and ability. But jazz is something that didn't require vibrato, and that is mostly what mattered to her in the realm of singing (and what she mostly struggles with, loathe as she is to admit it). "I'll think about it," she replied, and he didn't breach the subject further.

"Okay, so now that I'm no longer dying from asphyxiation," he starts, and Jemma notes that he is once again bouncing his leg up and down, "your flatmate. How do I even begin asking?"

It's Jemma's turn to laugh. "Oh, Skye? It's a bit of a long story," she replies vaguely, before indulging his curiosity. "We met in a communications lecture. She saw that I was arranging something in Finale and she told me she could improve the program, which is something that everyone really needs in the world of music. She's a year younger and I don't know much about her history, to be honest, but she's wonderful company when you're up for it. She comes off a bit crass at first, though." She chews her lip, lost in thought for a moment. "She works as a bartender and manages to help pay the bills from time to time, but I never expect her to. It's just nice having the company."

Fitz has a curious look on his face, like he doesn't know what to think of the words falling from Jemma's mouth, and she pretends to ignore him. "See, that sounds like an ideal living situation."

She gives him a sidelong glance. "What about yours? I distinctly remember you mentioning your flatmate being a right bit of trouble."

He sighs, burying his face into his hands. "I don't even know what to tell you. His name is Grant Ward and I swear he's not all that bad, but he hates talking so I know next to nothing about him. He works at a gym and drives a motorcycle and is somewhere in his late 20s, but I couldn't tell you exactly how old he is. And he's a right bloody piece of work when he's drunk. I think he needs anger management." He frowns and she reaches out her hand to pat his on his knee without a second thought. "I can't really judge him, though, can I? Besides, I'm almost never in the flat. I should just start setting up camp in one of the practice rooms," he jokes, and she can almost feel his eyes on the back of her hand over his, and she quickly pulls away.

"Well, I'll reserve judgment until I meet him," she jokes, and they fall into a not-entirely uncomfortable silence, in which Jemma's mind begins to race as it always does. She mostly thinks about how she can improve in today's rehearsal, how the third movement needs to be better balanced against the other two and how she needs to control her excitement so the rest of the orchestra can follow without struggling to catch up, but a stray thought or three wanders toward how warm his hand was against hers.

He clears his throat and she's gladly shaken out of her train of thought. "So, does Skye have any sort of musical talent? I hate assuming anything, but it would make sense that you'd pick a flatmate who had some sort of interest in music." She bursts into laughter and he frowns. "If this is mockery of me earlier, I swear I'll never do it again."

"Oh, Fitz, not at all," she manages, her voice slightly too breathy and too high as she tries to catch her breath. "No, no, Skye has next to no musical talent whatsoever. She is perhaps one step away from being tone-deaf, but it doesn't stop her from trying. She's partially why I listen to so much pop music because it's too difficult to dislike it when it's constantly playing in our flat." Jemma pauses to think for a moment, rounding a corner on the motorway. "Skye's a better singer whilst drunk, though that is hardly saying much," she muses, grinning at the memories of some awful but hilarious nights singing karaoke. "And what about Ward? Has he shown any indication that he's musically inclined?"

Fitz looks deadly serious as he turns toward her. "He wears enough leather jackets for me to assume he could pass off as a member of a rock band. Maybe he plays drums, or at the very least, he should consider picking them up. It might be a great method of temporary anger management."

She laughs so hard that she has to pull over until she recovers.


	6. VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jemma receives a jazz lesson and an invitation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let it be forever known that I do not study jazz and I didn't even study music theory. I only know the basics from high school choir and I excelled in all those lessons, but as soon as someone mentions chord progressions, my head starts spinning in wild directions, so I'm sort of shamelessly pulling this off of Wikipedia.
> 
> Very short chapter, but the next two are longer, promise.

"Dominant suspended fourth chord, major 6-9. In C major, D minor add the seventh, G add the seventh... Oh, bollocks," she curses, resisting the urge to smack her forehead against the piano keys. Instead of struggling through it herself, she takes out her mobile and shoots a text message to Fitz.

_Bored, by any chance?_

She places the device down on the piano and puts away the jazz book, pulling out one of the scores she is considering for her next concerto so she can look it over. She wants a piece that challenges the orchestra as well as herself, which is often a difficult task--either she is bored or the orchestra is, it seems. When she skims her way through the first movement and is about to start the second, there is a buzzing and she slaps her hand out.

_You know me, I like to keep busy. What's up?_

She doesn't try to suppress the smile that lights up her face.

_I need jazz help and I'm loath to leave my flat._

She sets it down in her lap and looks back at the score, sight-reading through the flute parts as she goes. The flutes always have more to work with than the rest of the brass and woodwinds, but they are usually an accurate way to judge difficulty. Her mobile buzzes again, barely a minute later.

_On my way._

There was a knock at the front door a half hour later, though Jemma could hardly have accounted for it—she was locked in the music room, ghosting her way through Beethoven's Op. 61 without much thought. (A singularly simple piece, but it was always good to return to something easier from time to time. She couldn't play pieces like Sibelius too often without risking burning out.) But the loud bang on the music room door startled her out of her reverie and she set her violin down carefully in its case, padding over to the door and opening it. "There's a suitor for you at the door," Skye says without preamble, a smirk on her face.

Jemma rolls her eyes and opens the door. "Have you been watching period dramas again? Or Easy A?" She heads out into the hallway after Skye and the other girl only cackles before disappearing into her room again. Jemma sighs heavily, making her way toward the door. "Sorry, I was—"

"—practising?" Fitz offers, and she nods in agreement. "Since you have a piano, I'll wager we'll be in the music room?" She nods again and tilts her head in the right direction as an indication for him to follow her.

When she opens the door, he curses under his breath and she grins proudly. "It's my favourite room of the flat, of course," she declares, and sits down on the floor, legs tucked beneath her as she flips through the next score. "You can take a look at the shelves, but I'd like to remind you that today is my day to be selfish and request that you help me understand these terrible, terrible chords from hell."

He laughed, sitting down at the piano. "Is that a standing invitation to come over and peruse your collection? Though, by casual first glance, it looks rather devoid of anything jazz, so we're going to have to fix that." She feels her cheeks heat up at his words, though she is almost certain that wasn't his intention, as he looks down at her and starts fidgeting again. "Oh, no, that's—that's not what I meant—"

"—it's okay," she murmurs, cutting him off with a wave of her hand. "You'll have to give me fair warning if you want to visit _la bibliothèque de Simmons_ , but I won't mind."

He looks back up, a smile on his face. "Will do. Now, let's get to it." Fitz shifts to the right and Jemma sits down on the left side, making a face.

"This is going to be horrendous. Please just be deaf for the next hour or so until we're done." She places her fingers down on the keys, playing a simple G chord. "That's basically the extent of my piano playing skills. I can play chords one by one and do only the most basic pieces, and rarely can I play with both hands at once. At least with the violin, I only have to focus on a limited set of rhythms." She hates when she starts rambling but she can't help it, and he nudges her shoulder with his.

"Oy, come on, you'll be fine." He mirrors the chord three octaves up and adds a fourth. "Go on, adding a fourth will be fine."

They plunk out chords for a while before he tries to work in scales. Her fingers get tripped up and she wrings her hands in frustration, but he smiles, patiently playing scales slowly so she gets them. When they work on chord progressions, she stumbles again and he stands behind her, resting one hand on his hip and the other covering her hand and she tries not to focus on how close he's standing to her. "I can't even play regular piano, let alone jazz piano," she jokes, and he laughs behind her.

"You're doing perfectly fine, Jemma, just keep practising. You're used to hours of it anyway, aren't you?"

She elbows him in the ribs for that jab.

\-----

Her mind is no longer adamantly struggling against the constant dissonance by the time Fitz tells her he has to go to class, and for a moment she remains bewildered until she realises that today is a Tuesday and not Saturday where they might have all the time in the world to listen to her sorry attempts at playing jazz chords. "Oh, no, go right ahead! I'm probably going to spend the rest of the day trying to figure out why suspensions even need to exist and then you'll see me tomorrow waiting outside your flat to go to rehearsal in some sort of existential, philosophical crisis."

Fitz nods sagely. "I'll be sure to bring down enough tea to fuel the fire," he replies seriously, and she cracks a grin. He reaches for the doorknob before smacking his forehead and turning back around. "Since we're on the topic of jazz and all, are you free on Thursday night after rehearsal? There's a jazz night at a club in London that asked me to play and you can finally witness my piano playing in all of its glory."

She thinks he's half-joking but there's something in his tone of voice that makes her bite her lip. It would mean a late night; rehearsal usually ends at 8pm and the drive home is an hour and a half long, and she's relatively sure jazz clubs tend to run into the early hours of the morning. But she wagers that if she's going to be considered a real university student, she should really stay out late at least once. "Oh, why not? I don't even have lecture on Friday this week. I'd love to."

His smile imprints onto her brain for what feels like hours later.


	7. VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitz performs at a nightclub and a few introductions are made.

Fitz gives her a once-over when he slides into the passenger seat and she snorts as she throws an arm into the air, resting her hand behind her head. "You look nice. Where are you heading?" he asks innocently, though she can see the mischief lighting up his eyes, and she drops her arm as laughter takes over.

"Oh, nowhere," she replies blithely, starting the car. "Just heading to a performance after rehearsal. I can't seem to remember his name, though, but I heard it'll be rather good."

He frowned. "I wouldn’t be able to tell you, but I bet he's handsome."

If she rolled her eyes any more, they might just pop out of her head. "Hmm, rumour has it he's a bit of a tosser. Really, though, I'm excited to attend my first jazz show. Or is it more just background music? Piano always gets relegated to background noise at clubs if there isn't a singer or a band involved." She was beginning to ramble again and he cleared his throat, shaking her out of her train of thought.

"Tonight is more background than anything, but I'll take requests. I don't think they've any real rules for jazz night at Aegis other than the usual if you're too plastered, you get thrown out at once."

She raises a brow in his direction. "The place is called Aegis? Are the owners fond of Greek mythology?"

"Actually, I haven't the slightest idea if they are. I think it just sounded sort of ace so they went with it."

"Wait," she starts, her brows knitting together, "isn't that the name of the newer club near here? It's sort of hard to mistake Aegis for anything else." She's been at Oxford long enough to notice when new places pop up out of nowhere and the club was no exception. It looked almost too sleek to be near the university, but it was far more enjoyable than some of the other seedier pubs.

He nods, the look of intense thought passing quickly over his features. "The owners just decided to open a branch near a university town because business is booming and it'll likely do well here, but London was the first." Fitz's hands are drumming against his thighs and she thinks he's playing scales in his head; it's just one of the many nervous habits she's noticed, though she's one to talk. She fidgets nearly as much as he does sometimes. "They seem to like me here so that's why they asked if I wanted to perform in London."

Jemma grins, shrugging a shoulder. "I, for one, can't wait. Are you nervous?"

It's his turn to shrug and he makes a scrunched sort of expression to go along with it and she has to bite her lip to keep from laughing. "I don't really get nervous, actually... Which you wouldn't be able to tell with the way I keep twitching about," he pauses, and she fills the silence with a well-timed chuckle, "but if I do, it's usually right before a performance. I tend to freeze up right before I go on but then once I sit down, I'm sorted."

She frowns, turning her head to check for passing cars before switching lanes. "I'm the exact opposite." He gives her an incredulous look that somehow conveys disbelief, like he's saying _Really? You, Jemma Simmons, violin prodigy, get nervous?_ , and she unsuccessfully tries to elbow him in the side. "I panic about the slightest things, like if I crescendo too quickly or if maybe I should hold back on this quintuplet and it's all nerves for days before performances, but the day of, I just drop all of it and I'm calm when I walk onto a stage. It might just be years of practice because I just can't afford to be shaky as I'm walking on, but it's a terrible coping mechanism." She gives him a sort of secret smile, like she's sharing a little too much about herself but it's just so easy to talk to him and she can't help it. "I spend nights just tossing and turning and barely getting sleep before a big concert. The night before the Royal Concertgebouw? I don't think I slept properly for a whole week."

He turns to glance over at her and she wrinkles her nose at the thought of how many nights of sleep she has likely lost over the years. "How will this one rank?"

"On a scale of the most nerve-wracking performances, hopefully not too high," she says, making a silent prayer to whatever might be watching over her, "Though it's always difficult to gauge. This is a massively challenging piece, but I'm comfortable performing with the LSO, so I suppose we'll see next week."

She chances a glance at him and he's staring at her like he wants to decipher just how she functions and she tries to fight the blood rushing to her cheeks. He turns away with a smile. "I suppose we shall."

\-----

When the 7-year-old daughter of the first chair flautist comes up to her at the second break to fawn over her, Jemma isn't entirely sure what to do. She has never really been told she's a role model before, and Fitz is standing next to her with this grin on his face that makes her half want to punch his arm. _You're my hero,_ the girl exclaims, and Jemma says _thank you_ and offers to teach her lessons, if her parents are willing.

Fitz squats down and rests his hands on the girl's shoulder and says that she picked a very good hero, that Jemma Simmons is talented and smart and determined, if not a bit stubborn, and the girl grins like she's sharing a secret when she says that her parents tell her that she's all of the above all the time.

\-----

Fitz complains at length about trying to fit his cello into her tiny car and when she laughs at him, he sticks out his tongue at her as though he was five years old all over again. "You're terrible," he chides, and she only shrugs before starting the car.

"So where exactly are we going? I probably should have asked you this before we left Oxford..."

It's his turn to laugh as he types in the address into his mobile. "I'll let my mobile do the talking since we both know I'm crap with directions." A calm female voice directs them out of the car park and further into the city.

When they arrive, there is still an hour before his set is scheduled to begin and he'll be lucky to be performing on time, so they head for the bar.

"So how exactly did you hear about this place?" she asks as the bartender passes over her martini of some unnatural colour and his pint. She had sworn to one drink for the night as she still has to drive them both back to Oxford, but his eyebrow still quirks at her choice.

"The branch at Oxford hosts some of the jazz ensembles," he replies, shrugging slightly before taking an appreciable gulp of his beer. "The owner thought a solo pianist might be suited to this place, so he asked if I would be interested, and now here I am."

"Here you are," she echoes, downing the rest of her drink. Before she can speak again, Fitz spots someone walking toward them and he grins. Jemma looks bemused as she turns to see where he was looking precisely.

"You're a little earlier than usual," the owner says, and Fitz laughs, reaching for the older man's hand. "Glad you could make it."

"For you, anytime," he replies, turning toward Jemma. "Simmons, this is Phil Coulson, the owner of Aegis. Coulson, this is Jemma Simmons, a friend of mine. We're both in the London Symphony together." He pauses. "Wait, I take that back. _I'm_ in the orchestra and she's the featured guest," he amends, and he can see her cheeks glowing despite the dim light.

"Pleased to meet you, sir," she says primly, reaching out for his hand.

Coulson smiles and his brow furrows in semi-recognition. "The pleasure is all mine. Featured guest? I take it you're not exactly average for your age."

She makes a noise halfway between embarrassed modesty and confused pride. "Perhaps not, but tonight isn't my night," she replies, nodding her head toward Fitz and he scoffs in jest. "I believe you have a location near Oxford, no? I've seen it before but I've never had the chance to stop in. I think I might have to now."

Coulson nods once, his eyes scanning the crowd again. "You should," he murmurs, and turns toward Fitz again. "Have you seen May?"

"May?" Fitz frowns, shaking his head. He has only met the manager once, but the woman made a lasting impression. "Not yet, no, but she knows how to weave through crowds."

Jemma sets the glass she's been toying with down, curiosity written all over her face. "And who might that be?"

Fitz grins, reaching for his drink again. "Melinda May, the club manager and head of security," he says, nodding his head vaguely toward the crowd. "I think that's her, sir."

Jemma's eyes follow his gaze, craning her neck, and they land on the woman in question, and her brows shoot up. "I never would have imagined her as a head of security."

"You've never seen her take anyone down," Coulson deadpans, and Jemma looks even more confused, though it's tinted with sheepishness and she settles back down on her stool, rubbing her neck. "It was nice to meet you, Jemma," he says genially, before heading into the crowd.

"Likewise," she calls out toward his retreating figure before turning toward Fitz again. "I honestly cannot imagine the two of them opening a place like this. They seem so... So _normal_." He laughs and they lose themselves in conversation.

All too soon, he has to go backstage and his hands fidget at his sides when she leans in to half-shout _good luck_ in his ear, over the loud chatter of customers. He watches as she goes to sit down at a table close to the piano and he thinks maybe he is nervous now before he's even gotten close to the stage, but then he takes a deep breath and thinks about his repertoire and how to make background jazz piano sound like a full performance without overpowering the room.

He's glad that Coulson hasn't put out a keyboard like he often gets at smaller places—the baby grand has a bigger range and allows him to play around with far more. When he sits down at the bench and starts playing, he feels all the tension in his muscles start to ease away. He plays some typical lift music first, letting his right hand fly over some turns, and he catches Jemma giving him a smile so he smiles back and the song morphs into _Lullaby of Birdland_. Her eyes light up in recognition and he turns back to the piano, his smile all the more pronounced.

\-----

The moment he steps offstage, she loops her arm into his and begins raving. "That was _brilliant_. Truly spectacular—I honestly didn't know you were so good!"

Fitz laughs at her enthusiasm and hums his assent, waving at Coulson from afar. "You're most likely the only one who listened for the entire performance, so bravo, Jemma. I think I owe you a drink." The words slip out of his mouth before he gives it a second thought and he wants to take them back, doesn't even know why he uses her first name, starting to stutter but she only grins, disentangling their arms and resting her hand on his shoulder.

"Offer accepted."

He impressively manages to fight the urge to grin like a fool for the entire drive home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The club is called Aegis because it's a "synonym" for SHIELD. (Haha, sometimes I like to pretend that I'm clever.) Every other synonym sounded wonky as a club name and it's a second reference to mythology, which happens to be something I adore with all of my heart.


	8. VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skye teases the crap out of Fitz and Simmons, and they decide to go out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The piece mentioned in this chapter is [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2lJyVyczwLo) particular Bruch concerto.

"Holy—how in the hell do you have a copy of this score?"

Fitz is almost shouting and Jemma's hands fly to her ears for cover, wincing. He yelps _sorry, sorry_ and she laughs, the sound resonating with the exposed strings of the piano in the corner of the room. "My grandparents are collectors. Gran was an opera singer, and Grandpa was a trumpet player before he became a patron at the London Symphony, so they've gotten a fair few rare scores. They're really only here on loan," she adds in a mock serious tone. "I'm meant to return them when I move, so I've secretly vowed not to move out of this flat unless it's absolutely necessary."

It happens to be Friday and they happen to have gotten home somewhere around 2am, having desperately needing to stop for both food and petrol in Jemma's case, and food and a washroom in Fitz's. She vaguely recalls kissing his cheek in the car and telling him _you're the hero_ , but exhaustion tempers her memories and she shakes it off. It's somewhere past one in the afternoon, with Fitz having knocked on her door just before noon, looking about as knackered as she feels.

He grins, though it seems like he isn't quite listening, instead engrossed in flipping through the score. She is still choosing a piece for her next concert and has five choices laid out on the floor and he is supposed to be helping, but she can't really blame him for his disinterest, not when there are so many pieces to explore on her bookcase, and a indeterminate number of recordings on CDs. Fitz drops into a seat on the bench and starts playing snippets of the score.

She chooses to ignore him, still going over her potential pieces with her violin tucked beneath her elbow, fingers flying across the strings as though she were actually playing, humming along where she could. The Bruch Violin Concerto No. 1 in G Minor—Jemma knows this one, has heard it so many times but has never actually played it, an oversight in her previous repertoire. She doesn't even realise Fitz staring at her, eyes wide, no longer playing. "And what are you doing?" he asks in disbelief.

Her brows knit together as she stops. "Erm... Sight-reading, sort of?" she replies tentatively, less of a statement than a question as to why he's staring.

He scoffs, turning back to the piano. "Perfect pitch," he says with derision, and it's her turn to stare. He seems to notice, though, which is one step better than her. "I'm sitting here playing in some unidentifiable key with all of these accidentals and you're still able to imagine what the scores in front of you sound like." It's a question, though he hardly phrases it that way and she nods. "If it were me, I'd be bloody confused three measures in. I certainly can't ignore the context." She's about to respond when he freezes, looking like something quite novel has stricken him. "A _ha_ ," he whoops, making her jump, "yet another obstacle to overcome in the world of jazz. It's got to be a hindrance, your perfect pitch."

She rolls her eyes. "Hardly a hindrance," she says, not entirely truthfully. Perfect pitch is a blessing in some situations, but awful in times when she happens to walk by someone singing entirely off-key. "Keep playing, you dolt."

They fall into a comfortable silence when she hears a loud noise outside, which can only indicate that Skye is back. This is confirmed only a moment later when she pulls out her mobile to find a text from her flatmate. _are you in?_

_Yes, music room with Fitz._

_jesus, should i leave? you should've put a sock on the door._

Jemma frowns. She vaguely recalls Skye mentioning a sock on the doorknob being some sort of secret code for 'sex happening inside, do not enter' and that is not what they're doing at all, no matter what Skye has been suggesting. The music room is practically sacrosanct, thank you very much, and she tries to wipe the shock that is likely etched into every inch of her face. _Not like that! Sight-reading music and sort of arguing._

_isn't that basically foreplay for you two?_

Jemma tries not to flush as she throws her phone across the floor without the pretense of typing a reply, returning to her music. Fitz is too engrossed in his own score, for which she is excessively grateful. It's not that she doesn't find him entirely fascinating because she does—he can hold her attention far more than most, and she may or may not sneak glances at him far more often than she cares to admit. But she isn't sure either of them needs something more than friendship, and with that thought she focuses solely on the notes on the page she's holding. They spend another ten minutes in their respective bubbles before there's another outburst.

"FITZSIMMONS, DO YOU WANT ANY FOOD?"

They both freeze, catching each other's eye before turning to the door. It's entirely like Skye to come up with a pet name for them and while it's not particularly shocking or offensive, as is often her way, it's still jarring. Jemma heaves a dramatic sigh, rolling her eyes at her friend's indiscretion and Fitz cracks a grin at her frustration. She sets down her violin in its open case and stands up, walking toward the door. "Well," she starts, shrugging as she reaches her hand out to the doorknob, "I haven't eaten since I woke up and that was hours ago, if the blasted noises my stomach's making are any indication. Shall we?"

He nods, stepping back from the piano and absentmindedly wiping his hands on the front of his trousers. "I'm bloody _starving_ ," he says in lieu of an answer and Jemma briefly thinks that he probably came straight over to her flat without eating breakfast, as she recalls his ruffled hair and jaw-popping yawns, but she pretends not to have noticed and chases the thought from her mind as she heads down the hall.

Skye is bent over her laptop on the kitchen counter, resting her chin against the backs of her fingers. "Pizza?" she asks, and Jemma just accepts this as a greeting. "I'm kind of out of food for the week so I figured pizza can be a replacement for the next few meals until we get groceries."

Jemma rests her arms on the counter and stares at her flatmate, willing her to look up, but Skye is stubborn and doesn't always pay attention at the right times, so Jemma has to clear her throat. Skye looks up innocently, and Jemma just barely manages not to flare her nostrils. "Fitzsimmons?" she asks, in lieu of a response.

"We're all very articulate today. We should form a society," Fitz mutters under his breath, yawning again.

Skye grins and returns her attention to the screen in front of her, addressing Jemma's comment and ignoring Fitz's. "It's easier. Why bother saying the implied 'and'? You're like one entity anyway and Fitz has been here so often that I'm almost starting to mix up your names. Stop distracting me," she says, holding up a finger as Jemma is about to protest, her mouth already open with words on the tip of her tongue. "One extra large, half cheese, half mushroom, sausage, and basil..." Jemma lets out a huff, though the thought of food is slowly making her frustration fade. Skye looks up from her screen again. "Fitz, what do you want?"

"Extra large, whichever option has the most toppings on it," he replies, hands on his hips. Skye raises an eyebrow at him but says nothing, and Jemma squints in his direction.

When he polishes off nearly two-thirds of the pizza all by himself, they both call him disgusting and he throws balled-up napkins at them in retaliation.

\-----

"That's it," he announces, and she jumps a little from where she's standing. He has been sight-reading the condensed piano accompaniment for her and she sounds amazing, as usual, but they've been in the music room for nearly eight hours total today, with only a brief break from each other's company because he had to be responsible and go teach a lecture. (He doesn't have the heart to tell her that he already skipped one of his own lectures, mostly because he forgot to look at his watch but partially because he enjoys her company so much.) She looks very much bewildered and he wants to laugh but surprisingly doesn't. "I think my hands are actually starting to shake from sitting here. Do you really practice this much?"

"Sometimes," she replies, and he raises an eyebrow at the truth in her statement. He can only imagine being more or less coerced into practising as much as a child prodigy does and instead he shakes the idea from his head because tonight is not a night for feeling sorry.

"Forget about all of it and let's go to Aegis. I said I owe you a drink last night, so we might as well take a break and go now."

She blinks once, twice, and he starts panicking internally, wondering if he should take it back and just leave, if maybe he's still in the head rush of a music high and making really stupid choices but then a smile blooms on her face and he can't help but grin back like an idiot. "Well, if we're going somewhere, I very well can't leave the flat looking like this," she frets, gesturing vaguely to her torso.

He bites back his thought of _you look lovely regardless_ and instead shrugs, standing from the bench and stretching his arms up. "You can go change and I'll wait in the front room. I don't mind."

She beams and quickly tucks away her violin in its case. "If it takes me more than twenty minutes, feel free to shout," she says, already halfway out of the room. He knows he won't and thinks he could wait for quite some time when it comes to Jemma Simmons, but she is more punctual than he's ever been in his entire life, so he takes her word and goes to sit in the front room, where Skye is curled up on the couch, half dressed to go out for the night but still wearing pyjama pants like she hasn't decided if she wants to leave.

"'Lo," he says as he drops down on the other end of the couch, and Skye looks up, slightly confused.

"Did some sort of natural disaster cause the two of you to leave the music room? I thought you might've set up a cot in there already."

He scoffs, pushing Skye's shoulder with the base of his palm. "Are you heading out, too?" He asks, genuinely curious, but he almost immediately regrets it when Skye turns her head to stare him down so quickly that he feels the impending whiplash before she does.

" _You two are going out?_ As in out of the apartment, together?" Her voice has gone up half an octave and her hand is clasped against her neck and Fitz wishes that a hole would open up and let him sink into the ground, possibly somewhere into the basement of the building.

"It's not a date, whatever you think it is. I owe her a drink for going to my performance last night."

Skye waggles her eyebrows at him and he can feel his cheeks burning but he still manages to shove her into the armrest. "Ow! SIMMONS, FITZ FIGHTS DIRTY," she shouts, half-heartedly pushing back. "And I don't believe you," she adds as an afterthought to Fitz.

Fitz chooses to ignore her. "You didn't answer my question."

"There's a band playing at Aegis—"

"—but that's where we're going! I don't want to be there if you're going to take the mickey out of us—"

"—and I wanted to see them." She pauses, processing his words before lighting up. "Oh my _God_. I have to be there now, it's a necessity. But I'll wait until you two leave so you can have some alone time."

"I cannot even fathom the fact that I can have conversations with you, Skye."


	9. IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skye and Fitzsimmons go out to the club and, as expected, Fitzsimmons aren't exactly dancing.

For some inexplicable reason, Jemma Simmons finds herself slightly dressed up and heading out to a club with Skye and Fitz on a Friday night, which sounds like a complete contradiction in itself because she doesn't spend evenings at clubs, and especially not with a flatmate who can only drink half of what Jemma can and still manages to get completely sloshed. But here she is, at Aegis, standing at the bar, holding a pint in one hand and listening to Skye chatting with the bartender, vaguely avoiding looking in Fitz's direction because he's sure to be staring back.

"How long have you been working here, Trip?" Skye's voice snaps Jemma out of her train of thought. The bartender's nametag says _Antoine_ , so she wonders just how long she's been out of the conversation to have missed why Skye is calling him Trip. He is tall and has really great eyebrows and arms that sort of make Jemma want to swoon, but he's not quite her type, and instead she vows not to blank out like she just did.

Trip shrugs as he pours rum into the shaker. "As long as it's been open. I used to be at the London club, pretty much since I moved overseas, but Coulson said he was opening up shop here and the commute is a hell of a lot nicer."

Jemma turns to Fitz, still feeling out of place. "Apparently everyone has connections to this place," she jokes lightly, grinning over the rim of her glass as she takes a swig. "Do you know who's playing?"

"Oh, fucking hell, I almost forgot." She raises an eyebrow at Fitz's cursing and he grins at her. "Remember when I suggested Ward was in a band?"

Jemma's eyes widen. " _You were right?_ "

He nods, laughing at her reaction and dodging her as she tries to pinch him. "Turns out he is in a band, but I haven't the slightest idea what he plays, and Trip convinced Coulson to let them play. Apparently," he pauses, shooting a glance toward Trip, "Trip and Ward have known each other forever, but why they're not living together is beyond me." There's something akin to _and now I have to put up with him_ hanging in the air after he stops talking, but somehow Jemma knows he doesn't really mind that much.

"Can you please explain why everyone is calling him Trip?"

"His surname is Triplett, Jem, keep up." Jemma only blushes and takes another gulp from her glass. "Come on, I know you can drink more than that, being English and all. Plus we don't have to drive home. This is a formal challenge issued by one Leopold Fitz and I am going to drink you under the table."

Jemma raised a brow before bringing her glass to her lips and chugging a good half of her pint. "Challenge accepted, Fitz, challenge accepted," she declared, setting the glass on the bar with a loud _thunk_ and earning her a look from Skye and a laugh from Trip.

\-----

"There is no way you could have done that. Really?" Jemma feels, rather than hears her voice shooting up an octave and three half-steps and Fitz starts laughing, nearly choking on his stout.

When he recovers, sputtering slightly, she slaps him heartily on the back and he shoots her a glare. "Are you trying to kill me, Simmons? And yes, I most certainly did. My mum obviously didn't approve of the whole jumping off of the roof idea in the first place, so I don't think I told her I was doing it because I wanted to test the laws of physics until five years later and she gave me such a smack that I think I might have gone deaf in my left ear for a few hours."

"But you were _four_."

He shrugs. "I read books that I didn't really understand." There's a goofy smile on his face and she wonders if his head is spinning a little, just like hers, but instead she just takes another sip of her shockingly blue drink.

"Okay, okay. My turn. I met Itzhak Perlman when I was nine," she starts, conjuring up the memory as Fitz turns his attention on her. "I told him that I was a violinist and wanted to travel the world to play in concerts. He laughed and took my hands and said 'You have the hands of a violist, my dear,' and I huffed and replied 'Your hands are huge and you play the violin!'"

Fitz does choke on his pint this time, slamming the glass down on the bar and coughing rather violently. She calls for a glass of water and Trip slides one over in the blink of an eye—how did he do that?—and she places one hand on his lower back and another on his shoulder, pushing and pulling to straighten his spine and allow him to breathe. When he recovers, still wheezing, two minutes later, she is frowning. "It wasn't that funny!"

He gives her a watery-eyed stare before reaching for the glass of water. "You poked fun at one of the greatest violinists of all time when you were _nine_ , of course it's hilarious."

She watches him as he gulps down half of the glass before she reaches for her own drink. "I was quite upset at the time but now I'm just embarrassed thinking about it. I doubt he'd still remember that, and even if he did, I hope he would never make the connection between that adamant little girl and me." He smiles, wiping at his eyes.

"I hope he bloody remembers that because it's _fantastic_. That's a story to tell your grandchildren, that is."

Jemma feels her head spinning and her arms feel simultaneously strangely light and weighed down, and she rests her forehead on Fitz's shoulder, slumped over in a way she's sure she'll regret in the morning, but right now she doesn't care, not when her ears are still ringing from shockingly loud music blasting through the speaker system and she's perhaps a little more than tipsy and she's here with friends. Despite the slightly stuffy environment, Fitz is still wearing a jumper and he's warm and Jemma is decidedly colder than she'd like to be, so she is content to stay at the bar until Skye decides to drag her back to their flat.

When Skye does arrive, grinning from ear to ear, Jemma wonders if her friend has had as many drinks as she has (the immediate answer is no and the realisation hits her like a brick, as Skye would probably be in the hospital with alcohol poisoning if that were the case) when the other girl loops her arm into Jemma's. "I hope you two haven't been here making out while I was chatting up the band members," Skye says blithely, though Jemma doesn't miss the suggestive tone hidden under Skye's pretense of indifference. "It's like... almost three in the morning and I know you don't even stay up past one, ever, so I'm being the responsible roomie and taking you home."

Jemma furrows her brows. It's a bit of a role reversal, of course, but she is grateful because when she stands up, she's a little wobbly on her feet and she immediately leans toward Fitz, her hand catching his shoulder. He looks perhaps slightly more coherent than she feels, but it might be a close call because he isn't being particularly graceful, either. "Skye... Skye, you're wonderful," she exclaims, beaming.

Skye raises her eyebrows before shaking her head. "Holy shit, you're _wasted_. It's a good thing we're going home. Oh, and Fitz, if you want to crash on the couch, we've got plenty of spare blankets and you can take one of Simmons' fifteen pillows. She probably won't mind in this state."

Jemma considers arguing but instead just wraps an arm around Fitz's waist, throwing her head back. "Off to the Misty Mountains!"

Fitz grins, draping his arm over her shoulders. "But we're not dwarves."

They continue in this fashion the entire way home and Skye wants to smack both of them for it if it wasn't so damn cute.


	10. X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitzsimmons spend the day together and have a jazz session.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song in this chapter is [Someone to Watch Over Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TYEeAOTIQ2c). This version is sung by Ella Fitzgerald but you can find loads of recordings on Youtube.

When Fitz wakes up, disoriented and hung over and on a couch he doesn't quite recognise in the haze of recovery and sleeplessness, he is entirely baffled when he finds a glass of water and two paracetamol on the coffee table in front of him. He takes them and finished the glass in four huge gulps and immediately regrets it, but knows that he has to suffer for a bit until he can drive back to his flat.

He sits up and rubs at his eyes, internally cursing at himself and the world when he sees Jemma tiptoeing into the kitchen. Her hair is pulled back into a plait and she looks a bit worse for wear, though he's certain she looks loads better than he does. Fitz watches her as she reaches for plates and a pan and when he yawns, always too loudly, she jumps and wheels around to face him, pan held in one fist like a weapon.

"Holy—you scared me," she accuses, jabbing the pan in his direction before putting it on the stove. "How are you feeling?"

"Like hell," he admits, stretching his arms upward. "But someone left out some painkillers, so I should be feeling better shortly."

She smiles without looking at him and instead walks toward the fridge. "I thought you might need them if you felt anything like I did this morning. I could have sworn I jumped in front of a train or something. My headache was _awful_." She pulls out a carton of eggs and about ten other things that Fitz doesn't follow much until she speaks up again. "Breakfast? I'm the one who usually makes anything for it, as Skye prefers food that requires minimal preparation to shovel into her mouth in the morning."

Fitz stands and walks toward the island in the kitchen, wondering how he managed this much luck. "Yes, thank you very much. It'll help the painkillers kick in so I can head home to make myself look like a normal human being again."

Jemma glances over at him, waving a spatula vaguely. "Oh, you look just fine," she says, before giving him a once-over and Fitz feels like he should blush, and he would if his head didn't feel like someone had been hammering at it for a few hours. "Minus the fact that you're mostly in the same clothes as yesterday—your sweater is on the chair, by the way—and your hair is sticking up at odd angles. It's rather cute, actually," she finishes, and he knows it's an off-hand remark but it still makes him feel a warmth that starts somewhere inside his chest.

He sits at the counter with his hands in front of him, fingers drumming on the stone and watches as she flits around the kitchen. There are dark circles beneath her eyes but she doesn't yawn nearly as much as he's managing and he wonders just how she pulls off being early for everything, even the day. He squints and notes that her hair is still wet. "Did you take a shower this morning and I just slept through all of the noise?"

She scoffs and he grins, even though it hurts his head. "You sleep like a rock. Well, when you're pissed, anyway," she amends quickly, and before he can meet her eye, she's turning back to flip the bacon in the pan. "I'm silent as a cat," she jokes before shifting over to crack eggs into a bowl.

Fitz huffs and rubs his face with his hands. "I would have tripped over every bloody thing before somehow making it into the hall. Maybe you are part-feline."

She tosses an egg into the air, catches it with one hand and cracks it over the bowl. "A-ha! Maybe I am." She bursts into a fit of quiet, barely contained laughter as her eyes flit toward the hall and he knows she's trying not to wake Skye, but he likes the sound of her laugh and sort of selfishly wishes she didn't have to be so accommodating. "You're welcome to come back after you tidy up, by the way. I don't have any plans besides practising for a few hours and I wager you're ahead of your work anyway."

"After I inhale this deliciousness, then, I'll come straight back when I'm presentable."

\-----

When he returns, she is dressed in something other than pyjamas and dusting the flat, listening to Gershwin on her stereo system. She might be humming to herself, but he can't really hear it and he clears his throat loudly to avoid scaring her for the second time that day. "That was quick," she comments, grinning as she puts down the duster, clasping her hands together. "Shall we resume in the music room? I'm still adamant that you should teach me how these chords fit together and how you can manage to improvise over them."

He laughs and pretends not to notice her looking him up and down again, though the blush in his cheeks threatens to give him away. "This way, young grasshopper."

"You're younger than me," she retorts, but she laughs anyway and follows him into the music room, closing the door behind them.

Fitz sits down at the piano and flexes his fingers before plunking out a few chords. Jemma sits beside him, her hands clasped in her lap, sitting straight as a board. He turns to look at her and is about to speak when an idea strikes him and he looks back to the keys and back to her in rapid succession. "Get your violin." He doesn't explain and she looks absolutely bewildered—she looks like a vision, he thinks, but he shakes that from his mind to ponder at a later time—but she stands up and goes to unpack her instrument.

When she's done rosining her bow and tuning up her violin, she waits expectantly, though he has a suspicion that she knows exactly what he'll say. "Okay, so a D-major chord is D, F-sharp, A. Play those notes." She props up the violin under her chin and plays an arpeggio, one eyebrow raised the entire time. "Now add the minor seventh." She plays D, F-sharp, A, and C and he can see her processing the notes because she winces slightly and he fights the urge to laugh. "Just picture each chord on the violin instead. Jazz fiddle is fundamentally quite different from classical playing as well as from jazz piano, but I think it's easier for you to learn. Now think about the swing scale in D major and you would improvise off of that most of the time. Don't try to muck around like I do."

It's this that seems to set off a million light bulbs in her brilliant mind and suddenly he's playing chords and she's fiddling around like she was born doing it. He sets down the foundation and she makes it soar to new heights.

He checks his watch and it's been two full hours of them playing around to see what works best, and Jemma nearly drops her violin when he tells her the time. "Well, at the very least, I think we need some water." She takes his glass and hers and heads out to the kitchen and he turns back to the piano, futzing around with chords until his mind settles on a Gershwin piece that sets off several alarms in her head.

"I know this one," she says from behind him and it's his turn to jump slightly, but he doesn't mind, instead turning around and giving her a small smile. She sits down next to him and sets their glasses on the coasters on the lid of the piano. " _There's a saying old says that love is blind, still we're often told 'seek and ye shall find'." She sings quietly and not at all like how she does in the car when she has Ellie Goulding blasting, and he finds himself nearly missing full chords listening. Fitz knows she has little training by way of voice, but years of playing the violin and inherited perfect pitch make singing come a lot more easily to a person. She sounds _good_ , better than most that he's heard and when she finishes singing the first verse, he turns to her, his fingers frozen over the keys for a brief moment._

_"You really do have a good voice for jazz," he notes, before improvising in key, waiting for her to speak._

_Jemma's cheeks are flushed and she shrugs one shoulder. "I never had the exposure to jazz you've had, so I was always more or less under the impression that you were either an opera singer or an artist on the radio. I'm not exactly a pop-punk sort, and I never managed to use the mad vibrato that opera singers have, so I never really bothered."_

_He smiles, avoiding her eyes because he knows that if he looks at her now, he might be lost for good. Instead, he focuses on the chords. "You're an alto?" he asks, though he intended it to be more of a statement._

_She nods, looking distant. "I think. Mostly. I can sort of sing soprano but it always sounded weak compared to, say, Renee Fleming, and on occasion when I was actually at school, I was one of the only ones who could sight-read without any issue so I was always delegated to the alto section to learn harmonies. And even if I had vibrato," she adds, and he doesn't think she notices that she's rambling a bit, "altos get delegated to 'witches, bitches, and britches'. Or, rather, mezzos and contraltos do. I don't think I'm either."_

_For once, Fitz realises that he hasn't interrupted or talked over her whilst she rambles and he is momentarily stunned before he stops playing and turns to face her. "Jemma, please consider auditioning for a jazz ensemble. No, really," he says, cutting her off as she opens her mouth to argue, "I mean it. You're spectacular." Before she can respond, he begins playing the lead-in to the rest of the song and nudges her shoulder with his._

_She jumps in and sings along, and it feels sort of like home._

_When he leaves ten minutes later with the poor excuse of forgetting the need to practice his cello, he keeps recalling her bright-eyed flush and he can't stop grinning._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GASP, did I just write an entire chapter in Fitz's POV? This chapter _could not have been_ any longer, holy shit. I apologise if it's as rambly as I think it is, but it was pretty important to the rest of the story that I include the second scene! I could have expanded on everything, really, but I want to get to the good stuff. Maybe I'll write a one-shot about Jemma's POV, if anyone is interested?


	11. XI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some quiet introspection for both Jemma and Fitz.

She plugs in the recorder into her computer and extracts the file, taking out her violin as she waits for the file to transfer.

Jemma has done this with every performance she can manage. The orchestra records itself playing everything without her and she can use the recording to practice prior to her arrival. Of course, since these are special circumstances, she was present to record them this time.

She checks to make sure that the file hasn't corrupted itself between recording and transferring and proceeds to warm up. Scales, arpeggios, double-stops; every day like clockwork for nearly two decades, though today she improvises a bit, a smile on her face as some of the lessons she's learned from Fitz in the past few weeks cross her mind.

Years of practice have taught her not to leave her hair down whilst practising, especially something as fast-paced as the third movement, but she decides to ignore her training for once, letting her hair fall in front of her face as she plays, her fingers flying across the strings, her bow strokes crunching on the notes as it's meant to. She leans into the atypical rhythms and constant triple-stops, swaying on the spot as she toys with the tempo here and there, pushing and pulling where the orchestra knows she might.

She breaks just before the second orchestral feature and closes her eyes, taking a deep breath as she tucks her violin beneath her arm, her mind immediately wandering. In the past few weeks, Jemma has felt far more herself outside of performing than usual and she knows that meeting Fitz had something to do with it. She has never been able to connect with most people her age, let alone start to consider him her best friend. (She tries to ignore the little voice in her head that reminds her about the amount of staring she's done when he hasn't been looking, or the number of times that she has caught him staring in her direction.) Sighing, she tucks her instrument beneath her chin and begins again.

 _It's only mastery if you can play it multiple times and get it perfect each time_ , she reminds herself, and the music becomes her sole focus once more. Playing the violin has always been her form of escape when the world gets to be too much, when she starts nagging at herself more than she should. Finding the rhythm of a piece, letting everything go and replacing it with the way the notes fit together—that was how she could pull herself back together.

Barely an hour later, Jemma lets out a half-yelp of frustration and sets her violin down in its open case on the floor. Her brain doesn't seem to be cooperating today, so she heads out of the music room into the kitchen for a cup of tea.

The music from Skye's room isn't nearly as loud as it usually is, though she still hears her friend's indecision as she switches from Lady Gaga to Michael Jackson to the Beatles and Jemma smiles, singing along to Eleanor Rigby under her breath as she bustles around the kitchen.

When the kettle goes off, it takes about ten seconds before a door opens and Skye appears in the entryway. "Whoa, you're not supposed to be here," she says with an eyebrow raised, arms crossed over her chest, but there's a smile on her face. "I figured I'd basically have the apartment to myself for the next two or three hours. What gives?"

Jemma stares at the cup in front of her, watching the tea slowly swirl and colour the water. "I just needed a break," she says, not looking up.

"Hey. Jemma." She looks up then, Skye's use of her first name startling her out of her reverie. "It's got to be more than that. You can talk to me, if you want to."

Jemma pauses, considering this for a moment, before the corners of her mouth turn up. "I'll just finish up making tea and then we'll talk, yeah?"

\-----

The concert is in two days, Fitz reminds himself, and he tightens his bow without really thinking.

He has spent the past few days hardly able to practice cello, instead sitting at his keyboard composing or breaking away to the practice rooms for a better sound and bigger space. (Or at Jemma's flat, his brain thinks traitorously, but he chooses to ignore that thought for now.) He doesn't feel rusty and useless yet, but his fingers don't fall on the strings quite so easily when he plays through his scales. He renews his determination as he flips through the music.

The accompaniment for the concerto isn't difficult, so he picks a few places to practice—the allegro molto vivace toward the end of the first movement, number 1 of the second movement, the sixteenth-note runs just before number 6 of the third movement—but the rest sounded so empty without an orchestra playing around him and a soloist out in front. He tries not to let his thoughts stray toward something that isn't the music in front of him, but then he imagines a set of warm brown eyes and he's lost.

Fitz isn't entirely sure how falling for her happened. He had almost skipped his audition for the London Symphony for fear his nerves would make him explode, but somehow he did it, he conquered whatever fear had been eating at him and met Jemma Simmons, someone that had vaguely been a part of his life for several years through her story and her recordings. Another musical prodigy, he thinks, and even though their stories are different, somehow their paths converged.

He doesn't make friends very easily, and yet being friends with Jemma crept up on him, unexpected, the eye of a storm raging around him. Fitz picks up the Tchaikovsky to challenge him a bit more, distract him from his train of thought but as soon as he reaches a lull in the piece, his thoughts wander again, his hands on autopilot.

When he puts down his cello only a half hour later, he tries to shake the memory of her singing next to him from his head and fails miserably.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of angst for you! I cannot remember which Tchaikovsky piece I meant in Fitz's section, so I'm sorry I don't have a link to provide.


	12. XII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night of the concert comes along and Fitzsimmons have some talking to do.

"Sorry we couldn't take the same car," Jemma says sheepishly, and Fitz shakes his head.

"Don't worry about it, Jemma," he replies. She has a habit of apologising for everything and because it's Jemma, it's an endearing habit. She told him that her parents would be attending the concert and she didn't want to make him stay longer than needed. He wouldn't have minded, really, but he also doesn't want to intrude, so instead he arrives at the concert hall by himself, with just enough time to leave his case backstage and say a few words to Jemma. "Are you just going to stand in the wings for the first half?"

"I think so," she says, biting her lip in thought. He tries to ignore it. "I'll see you during intermission?" He nods in response and quickly rushes to the stage.

The entire first half of the concert seems to pass in a blur. Fitz has always loved performing despite his initial stage fright, and not being able to see the audience means that he can find his comfort zone within the music. But intermission is suddenly here and he leaves his cello next to his seat, hurrying off backstage and winding his way around to the other side of the stage in the wings. "Still nervous?" he asks, grinning lopsidedly.

She returns the smile, shrugging as the fingers of her left hand tap against the shoulder of her violin. "Not really, but I suppose I am a bit since I'm so close to home and my parents are here." There's a sound from the door between the theatre and the stage and they both turn to see two people sneaking in from the audience. "Mum, Dad, I told you not to come back here!" Jemma halfheartedly chides, though she beams as her parents press kisses to her cheeks.

"This is Leo Fitz," she introduces, turning to him with a smile that nearly forces all of the air out of her lungs. "He's my—" —and there's a nearly imperceptible pause that he only notices because of how close they've gotten in the past few weeks, or perhaps he's imagining it entirely— "—best friend. Best friend in the whole world. Fitz, these are my parents."

Fitz shakes both of their outstretched hands. "It's an honour to meet you," he says, a nervous smile on his face. Her words keep turning over and over in his head. _Best friend, best friend in the whole world_.

"Ahhh, we've heard a lot about you," Mrs. Simmons says with a smile to rival her daughter's. "Jemma's talked non-stop about someone named Fitz and now we finally have a face to put to the name."

When he returns to the stage ten minutes later, he feels like he belongs in a strange dream.

\-----

Jemma takes her first bow and the audience's clapping drowns out her thoughts as she straightens, beaming. She turns to shake the conductor's hand and throws her arm back toward the orchestra to acknowledge them, and then gestures toward the sound booth. There are at least three people coming from backstage and two from the audience with bouquets of flowers and she doesn't have enough arms to hold the blooms and hug everyone in thanks, so a member of the association stands next to her to take the bouquets as they come.

Her parents mirror her smile as they pass off their flowers, kissing her forehead. Jemma thinks she is making them proud and the thought makes her heart swell. She sees Fitz out of the corner of her eye and he is clapping as wildly as he can with his cello tucked into the crook of his arm.

When she turns back to the audience, nearly in tears as she notices them all standing for her, she takes one final bow before walking stage right.

Every concert always ends the same way, but she still feels the thrill of it as much as she did when she was little. She waits in the wings and watches as orchestra members file by, praise ringing in her ears as she enthusiastically returns their kind words. Her parents take most of the flowers and her violin case and her mother whispers that they'll be in the lobby when she's ready.

She isn't quite ready to admit that she's looking for Fitz, though he would be coming off of stage left and she might not catch him right away. So she gathers up the one bouquet her parents didn't take and heads toward the hallway.

He is efficient, she muses, as he rolls his case down the ramp toward her before anyone else is even finished packing up. "Hi," she says breathlessly, still smiling. She can feel her cheeks glowing and she's sure her hair looks like a huge mess.

Fitz grins, his hand rubbing absently at the back of his neck. (To keep from fidgeting, she notes, as she saw the way his hands wouldn't stay still from a distance.) "You sounded fantastic," he says, and she tries not to blush more and fails.

"Thank you. Though without the orchestra, this wouldn't have been even half as good." She has to find her parents and speak with the audience if they recognise her once she's out in the lobby, but she nods toward the door. "Would you mind if I walked you out?"

He drops his hand, fingers tapping at his thigh. "Are you sure? I don't want to keep you..."

"I'm positive, Fitz," she says firmly, and they leave through the side door.

It is cold and just barely snowing and she is wearing a dress that is really not so suited for the weather, so when she shivers just as Fitz shrugs off one half of his jacket and wraps his arm around her shoulders so she can stay warm, she only barely protests. "You should've stayed inside, Jemma," he says, and he's much too close and much too warm and she loses her ability to speak for a moment.

"I wanted to see you," she says simply, and she thinks maybe he is clenching his jaw but if she turns to confirm her suspicions, they'll be even closer.

They walk in silence halfway to the lot but Fitz stops and Jemma is not able to move forward, so she stops and turns to look at him, head tilted to one side. "Here," he says, taking off his jacket entirely, and just as she pushes it back toward him, words already on her lips, he shakes his head. "Absolutely not. You take it and head back inside, yeah?"

She slips it on and is entirely too grateful. "I meant it, you know. You're my hero." She isn't quite sure where these words are coming from but she doesn't mind them, not shivering out in the cold London night, feeling perhaps too warm given the circumstances.

He stares at her for a few moments and she's about to ask _why_ when he takes a deep breath and starts speaking. "Jemma, I—I just wanted to tell you before it's too late and I missed my chance, and this is probably shit timing but you should know... And please don't say anything yet," he says, holding up a hand as she opens her mouth to speak. "Please. You called me your best friend earlier, when your parents were backstage. I just wanted to tell you that you're more than that. You're more than a best friend to me."

The breath that she draws is shaky and she feels as though the world is spinning too quickly, that she isn't being held down by gravity, that she is suddenly hyper-aware of _everything_. "Fitz, I—"

He shakes his head, a small smile on his face. "We'll talk soon, yeah?" And before she can reply, he is gone, walking toward his car and she is left standing in the grass, snowflakes melting in her hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting close to the end! :)


	13. XIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An audition of sorts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song from this chapter is [What Are You Doing New Year's Eve?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UFdfzNMV52Q) and this version is sung by Ella Fitzgerald, naturally.

The tree in her front room still has a present underneath it despite it being three days after Christmas, and Jemma's eyes haven't left the wrapped box for what feels like hours.

He hasn't texted her or called or reached out in any way, and somehow she knows that Fitz is giving her space to think. A part of their synchronisation, or a psychic link, like Skye calls it. His words turn over and over in her head and she can't even think straight anymore.

She is fully dressed despite having no intentions of leaving the flat, a subconscious reminder to herself that there _is_ something she can do, so she picks up a jacket and slips out the door.

\-----

Fitz looks down at the keyboard, trying to avoid the sudden urge to pick up his mobile and text Jemma. He keeps being seized by the desire to talk to her, but it's been a week and he knows that he needs to give her space.

It was selfish of him to tell her and not let her speak. He berates himself at least seven times a day about it despite the also constant reminder to himself that what's done is done. So instead, he forces himself to pick up and live, even if he is constantly consumed by his thoughts to the point of not really living.

The auditions for the jazz ensemble are slow as the holidays have most students back home with their families, but they'll take anyone who is interested, and they've seen a fair few faces. He taps his fingers absentmindedly against the keys during this extended break until someone else shows up, dutifully ignoring the lit-up screens around him.

Someone clears her throat from the back of the room and the stage lights are too bright to see who it is. "Are you here for an audition?" he calls, hoping for something to do, something to distract him.

The woman approaches the stage, stepping into his line of vision and he sits slack-jawed, unable to speak.

"I am," Jemma Simmons says, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

\-----

Jemma drops the jacket and her purse on an empty chair and steps onto the stage, her hands clasped in front of her to keep from fidgeting. She is well and truly nervous now, and she tries not to look at Fitz for too long. "My name is Jemma Simmons," she says to the others around her, presumably the rest of the ensemble.

"So, what are you singing for us?" The saxophonist asks, because the pianist behind her is rendered speechless and she suppresses her laughter.

She turns to Fitz, who has shut his mouth but is still staring at her, wide-eyed. "Key of A, please," and he snaps out of his daze, playing a chord. She starts singing into the microphone.

_When the bells all right and the horns all blow  
and the couples we know are fondly kissing  
Will I be with you or will I be among the missing?_

She sings and he plays and it feels right, she thinks. She feels the music pulsing in her fingertips as her hand wraps around the microphone, the other around the stand.

_Maybe I'm crazy to suppose  
I'd ever be the one you chose  
Out of a thousand invitations you receive_

_Oh, but in case I stand one little chance  
Here comes the jackpot question in advance  
What are you doing New Year's, New Year's Eve?_

She steps back and looks down at the floor for a few moments, her cheeks flushing, before she looks back up. The saxophonist is grinning. "I think you're in," she says, and the rest of the ensemble nods their agreement.

"Thank you so much." Jemma is beaming as she turns around and walks toward Fitz, whose leg is bouncing and hands can't seem to stay still. "Hi," she greets, cheeks still red. "Can we talk?"

He nods and stands up, nearly knocking over the keyboard though he quickly rights it, and they move out of the spotlight and off of the stage. "I didn't know you would be here," he starts, and she chews her lip as she ignores the urge to hold his arms still. "And you're wearing my jacket."

"You told me about the audition weeks ago, and I've been debating it all week. I decided to just go for it, and you know I never do that. Did you like my choice of song?" She chooses to ignore his comment about the jacket entirely. He nods, and she continues, knowing that if she doesn't barrel on, she'll freeze and the words will never come out. "I chose it for you."

He stares at her so she stares at the ground, not willing to meet his eyes. It feels like ages must pass before he speaks. "Jemma," he starts, and she can't help but look up at the sound of his voice saying her name, "You chose that for me?" There's a hint of wonder in his voice as he tentatively reaches for one of her hands with both of his, rubbing circles against the back of her hand with one thumb.

She swallows harder than she intends to and nods, staring at their hands. "There are three days until New Year's Eve and tomorrow is your birthday and I wanted to tell you before then. It's been a week and I think I've had long enough to consider what you said to me." He is far too close but this time she doesn't care, so she leans in and presses her lips against his.

Fitz freezes for a moment before he drops her hand, wrapping one arm around her waist, his free hand toying with her hair. Jemma's hands are clutching his collar and when they pull apart, there's a goofy, lopsided grin on his face. "I think this is the best early birthday present I've ever gotten," he half-declares, resting his forehead against hers.

Jemma laughs, wrapping her arms around him. "You didn't answer the question," she states, and he looks immensely confused until she hums a bit of the song.

"I'll be with you, obviously," he says, the wonder still written all over his face and she can't imagine anything better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :]
> 
> There's a bit more to come! This is based off the various Marvel Wikis that say Fitz's birthday is 29 December, so the audition happens on the 28th.


	14. CODA

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitzsimmons play a duet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song from this chapter is the same as the one from chapter seven!

"Oh, Fitz, you ruined it!"

Jemma throws her bow hand into the air, nearly whacking him over the head with her bow and he ducks, cursing loudly. "Bloody hell, Jemma, you're going to take my head off."

She throws him a look, resting her bow across her lap. "If you weren't staring at me, we would have sailed past this and we wouldn't be having this conversation." She looks annoyed, but he knows she's pretending. Mostly. "So it's your fault."

He grins, shrugging one shoulder as he puts his bow down on the stand. "You're highly distracting," he says in response, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. She rolls her eyes. "Not like that! Well, like that, too, but not _just_ like that. You have stage presence even when you're practising, Jem, I can't help but want to watch you play. And then I remember too late that I'm supposed to be playing, too. It almost happened seven separate times at the concert."

She blushes, her irritation dissipating as quickly as it came. "You're exaggerating," she says, and he shakes his head vigorously. She avoids his gaze then, turning toward the music before she lets out a dramatic sigh. "Oh, let's take a break," she concedes, sighing as she places her violin in the case.

Fitz quickly rests his cello on its side. "And by break, you mean we'll be at the piano instead of practising strings."

She nods. "I'm predictable, what can I say?" He laughs, standing up and reaching for her hand as she swivels her legs over her case. As she stands, Fitz quickly comes up behind her and sweeps her into his arms. "Fitz!" she shrieks, wrapping her arms tightly around his shoulders.

"God, you're heavy," he huffs, and she smacks the back of his head with one hand. "Ow! I'm _joking_ , but I'm also not strong enough to do this for extended periods of time." He sets her down on the piano, shaking out his arms. "That's it. I need to ask Ward how to become a gym rat," he says rather breathlessly, resting his hands on his hips, and Jemma laughs.

"Please don't. I don't know if I could take you seriously as a gym rat." He grins as he sits down and sets up a few chords and she grips the edges of the piano, swaying slightly.

_Oh, lullaby of birdland that's what I_  
Always hear, when you sigh  
Never in my word land could there be words  
To reveal in a phrase how I feel  
Have you ever heard two turtle doves?  
Bill and Coo, when they love  
That's the kind of magic music  
We make with our lips when we kiss 

He breaks into a piano interlude and she laughs, scatting over it for a few bars. She stops and watches him play and when he finally looks up, all starry-eyed, she jumps down from the piano and closes the space between them, bending her head down to kiss him soundly. He stops playing and twists to pull her down toward him and she falls across his lap with a small _oh!_ muffled against his mouth. One of her hands cups his cheek while the other threads into the curls at the base of his neck.  
When she pulls away only far enough to draw breath, her nose pressed to his, she lets out a breathless giggle that morphs into a sigh. "Oh, dear, I'm afraid the music room is about to become exactly what Skye thinks it's for."  
He swallows hard, arms wrapped around her waist. "And what's that?" he asks, and she draws back a little farther to see the dazed look in his eyes.

"Well, it _is_ soundproofed," she says, arching an eyebrow at him, and he frowns for a moment before it dawns on him, recognition turning his look from dreamy to downright suggestive.

Fitz grins almost too wickedly as he pushes her off of his lap only to pull her back down so she's straddling his legs. "If that's the case, we should really take advantage of the opportunity."

Her laugh becomes a moan when his lips find her neck and she is suddenly very thankful that the room is soundproofed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for following this story!


End file.
